


scars of silver eyes of grey

by elrohir



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Can be interpreted as gen or slash, Himring, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrohir/pseuds/elrohir
Summary: “Though you are no less beautiful for your scars, I cannot bear that he marked you so,” Findekáno murmured softly, like a stray thought voiced aloud.“Angband’s arts pierced deeper than my skin."





	scars of silver eyes of grey

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna write a Spiritpact fic because there's only like 30 of them but whoops my hand slipped.

"Blast this wretched humidity, " Maedhros swore, wiping at his brow with his good hand. Findekáno chuckled from the other side of the smithy, the rough orc-blade in his hands about to be melted down and recast for less sinister purposes. “Days like this are rare in Beleriand, Nelyo; you should be grateful for the heat.”

“I’ll be grateful for the heat when I can go outside without bathing in the air.” Maedhros could feel the sweat on his back crusting and gluing his thin cotton shirt to his spine.

“Perhaps a break is in order, then?” Findekáno suggested lightly, putting the orc-blade aside and removing his tough leather forge-gloves. Maedhros nodded in agreement. 

Findekáno’s dark hair was pulled back in thick work-braids, and the slats of the shade roof striped the angles of his face with stark shadows. Maedhros clapped him on the shoulder and sat down with an oomph against a hardy timber support beam, letting loose a well-earned sigh. “Morgoth’s balls, it’s hot today.”

Findekáno laughed and sat next to him on the dusty ground. “Though they may have been put to foul use before, I am glad we can repurpose Angband's resources for a nobler cause.”

Maedhros snorted. "How the Dark One must quail in his boots to see his legions' armaments turned to nails and horseshoes!”

“Better nails and horseshoes than weapons for Morgoth’s armies.”

Maedhros looked contemplatively into the red flame of the coals. “Very true, that.”

Even as he spoke he could tell that a note of something beyond Findekáno’s reach colored his words, and a silence fell between them. Maedhros stretched out his arms in front of him and stood up, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “I’m going to go fill our water-skins from the well; come with?”

“We’ve only just sat down, Nelyo!” 

Despite his tone, Findekáno’s complaint had no true bite in it, and he took Maedhros’ proffered hand without hesitation. Maedhros smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. Findekáno squeezed his shoulder companionably, and fell into step beside him.

The walk to the well was not a far one. Though Himring was built on a high hill, a natural reservoir deep in the earth below supplied much of the fort’s water. Maedhros’ calculations, though limited due to a lack of the fine instruments needed for such a thing, indicated that the reservoir could outlast Himring’s food stores seven times over in the event of a siege.

He hoped it would not come to that. The reach of Morgoth’s hand grew ever longer with the passing years, and he knew better now than to think that the limited, though battle-tried and valiant, forces of Noldor under his protection could openly assail Angband. 

He would not repeat the mistakes of his father.

“Nelyo, are you alright?”

The touch of Findekáno’s hand on his forearm, and his clear voice, like cool water in the desert, wrested Maedhros away from the darkness of his thoughts. Those were buried memories of a far-off time, and no matter how much his old wounds ached, he could not let himself burden Findekáno with full knowledge of the weariness of his past. He laughed, brushing aside Findekáno’s concern. “Of course I am. This blasted heat is getting to my head; I’ll be glad for some water.”

“Aye.”

The question had not left Findekáno’s eyes, but he did not pursue it.

The well they were headed to sat in a shaded stone courtyard just beyond the outer walls of the main fort. Maedhros set down his pack on a bench beside it, and rummaged for the water-skins as Findekáno drew up water. 

Findekáno marvelled at the efficient design of the mechanism, silent and effortless. “This is quite the clever pulley system you have here, Nelyo. Who designed it?”

Maedhros pulled the skins from his bag and handed one to Findekáno, who began filling it. Maedhros stood at his side and scooped water into the second one. “I did, actually. It’s based off of a model we used in the forges in Formenos and a mechanism I caught a glimpse of in….“

The word Angband went unsaid, though it hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable. Feeling a sudden tension, like a knife over thread, Maedhros could not look at Findekáno though he felt his gaze; instead, he focused on screwing shut the waterskin. He found could not bear the sight of the well and moved to sit on the bench as if to retrieve something from his pack.

He should not be reacting so strongly to the mention of a simple pulley mechanism. His throat clamped up and he swallowed painfully, struggling with the clasp of his pack. His fingers trembled against his will and he could not work it. 

“Maitimo.”

Findekáno was calling him, but the staccato snatches of a smooth voice, like the flow of molten metal from a crucible, was not Findekáno’s. Maedhros squeezed shut his eyes as his heart began to pound in his throat. 

It crooned in his ears, all-too-real. _Maitimo, little one._

No longer could he feel Findekáno’s presence, but that did not matter. Even if he wished to, Findekáno could not follow him here, into the depths of black memory and Gorthaur’s cruel arts.

_You did a bad thing today, my dear one. Sneaking off to the forges like a little rat? You know that misdeeds must be punished, Maitimo._

The slow white fire of a sharp blade tracing languidly over his stomach, the burn of heated metal on his face. Maedhros knew intimately the deadly bite of Angband steel; silvered scars scattered his exposed arms like a brand. Not many smiths in Middle-earth could match the foul arts of the Dark One’s forges, designed for efficiency and virulent power. 

The clammy sweat that coated his face was not because of the humidity. He shivered violently, and his vision swam. He could no longer see the stones of the courtyard at his feet; he tried and failed to suppress a shudder. His hands shook as he grasped blindly in a vain attempt to steady himself, to calm his troubled, turbulent thoughts.

The vague flat echo of a waterskin hitting the ground, and Findekáno was kneeling in front of him, his hand strong and warm in his, his fingers gently brushing the hair from his eyes, firmly assuring him of his presence. “Maitimo.”

He may have left Angband, but Angband had not left him. He clenched his teeth to keep from biting his tongue, and held his breath stubbornly.

“Maitimo, concentrate on me. You’re safe here. I’m here.”

Maedhros’ exhausted ears barely registered his voice. He sounded out of focus, as if underwater.

Findekáno traced the faint scars that lay scattered on Maedhros’ bare arms, the insistent pressure of his fingertips an attempt to ground him, to draw him back to his side. Maedhros wrested his insubordinate thoughts away from the deceit of the voice in his head and fixed his concentration on Findekáno’s cool fingers. 

His palliative touch was a balm for the still-raw memories each scar held. Maedhros forced his haggard lungs to push air in and out, to breathe. He let his head fall forward until his forehead rested against Findekáno’s. He hated that he was this weak, he hated himself for letting Findekáno taste the full measure of his misery. 

Findekáno’s arms wound their way around his back and drew him close. Maedhros inhaled his scent. The pounding of his heart was steadier now, and Findekáno’s unwavering presence breathed calm into the turbid ocean of his mind. 

He opened his eyes.

“Though you are no less beautiful for your scars, I cannot bear that he marked you so,” Findekáno murmured softly, like a stray thought voiced aloud.

“Angband’s arts pierced deeper than my skin. I am not the Maitimo whom you knew of old, Finno.” Maedhros released a breath tiredly. “I am… changed.”

Letting go of Maedhros’ back, Findekáno grasped his hand in his, spreading open his clenched fist and winding their fingers together. His fingers were warm, and his firm grip at least was one thing that had not changed since their days in Aman, though decades with the sword had formed hard callouses where Maedhros did not remember them.

“Touched by Sauron or no, your worth to me is still more than any treasure of the Noldor.”

“I am not deserving of your kindness. Look at me; I can barely draw water from a well without falling prey to the darkness of my own thoughts.”

Findekáno, still kneeling, put his hands on Maedhros’ shoulders and looked him in the eye. Maedhros quailed under the fierceness of his gaze. 

“Nelyo, listen to me. There is yet something dark coiled within you that I cannot grasp, and that is alright with me. You do not need to trust me with anything more that you are comfortable sharing. But—“

Findekáno paused, considering his words. “But I see so much pain and hurt within you—don’t look at me like that; you forget how well I know you—and it torments me inside that I cannot help you.”

His hands fell from Maedhros’ shoulders and he looked away. Maedhros felt something prick inside his chest, and he dropped his gaze. 

“Finno, I—“

“Wait.”

Findekáno looked at him again, unconcealed emotion obvious in his eyes. “I freed you in body from the trials of Thangorodrim, but your mind is yet as one who never left that cursed mount. Please, Nelyo. Let me help you.”

Eyes red, he sniffed, then immediately flushed. “I’m sorry, I—“ 

His right hand, which had fallen to Maedhros’ knee, flew up to hide his face, but Maedhros caught it.

“Finno.”

Findekáno’s eyes, fever-bright with tears, stared up at him, grey and unguarded.

“I have wronged you.”


End file.
